Suspicions
"Suspicion is a virtue as long as its object is the public good, and as long as it stays within proper bounds."
~Patrick Henry.
FBI Main Drive. Quantico, Virginia.
Linnea Charles sucked air through her teeth sharply—a sure sign of her frustration. She paced the cordon slowly in a pitiful attempt to keep warm. She'd given up trying to strain her neck to see what was happening at the main building hours ago. Once the rescue teams had finished, all excitement seemed to ebb. And yet here she was, along with dozens of other reporters, anxiously waiting for something, anything, to send back to their editors for the online edition or report in front of their camera crew.
She'd forgotten her gloves this morning—truly, the weather wasn't quite cold enough for them, but that was only if you didn't plan to spend hours on end outside, away from any form of shelter. Sure, she could go back to her car, but there was the off-chance that she might miss something—and ever the reporter, she'd risk the cold rather than miss a scoop.
Slipping her phone out of her jacket pocket again, she pulled up her email, reading over that one message for what must have been the hundredth time.
Angrily, her numb fingers typed out a response:
What the hell is going on? You said this was an exclusive—why are there twenty other reporters and news crews out here?
With one last huff, she hit send.
She didn't expect a reply. She wasn't sure what this person's game was, but it was definitely a game.
She noted the email address again—it was the real deal, or at least it appeared to be. It even had the little tag at the bottom of the email that clarified it was sent from the email app on the person's phone. She'd given the info to the newspaper's researcher, a younger man who probably was a hacker in his free time, given his skill set and his ability to conjure up seemingly-unfindable information. No one ever really questioned how he got the info, and it was an unspoken-yet-understood office rule that they never looked too deeply into his background.
As if on cue, her phone rang.
"Tell me you've got something good, Salander," Linnae answered.
"If by 'good', you mean 'everything you could want and more', then yes," returned Karl Miramontz, who was better known as Salander, in reference to the hacker-heroine of Stieg Larsson's Millenium series. "I've got a name for the owner of the email address—and he checks out. He's a legit FBI agent."
"Alright then—lay it on me." She put Salander on speakerphone, pulling up the search engine on her smart phone. He gave her the name and she typed it in, her face scrunching in confusion (the name…it sounded so familiar….).
Her eyes went wide with shock when she saw the face that appeared in the search results.
"Oh my God," she felt the breath leave her lungs.
"What?" Salander's tone was filled with confusion.
"I know this guy."
Ninth Floor, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.
"Alright," Judith Eden took a deep breath, leaning back in the seat directly in front of the laptop, which she'd taken over since Mac's exit. "Time to earn your keep, brilliant young doctor. See something the rest of us can't see."
Spencer Reid leaned closer in, squinting slightly as he genuinely tried to obey the command.
Jonas' phone twittered with a notification. He pulled it out of his pocket, announcing, "Text from Sura. So far, nothing on her hunt for local online purchases of acetone, hydrochloric acid, and hydrogen peroxide."
"That's because our UNSUB's smarter than that," Spencer informed them. "TATP takes time to make—you have to wait almost a week for the crystals to form. And all three ingredients can be found at local hardware stores—though, if he wanted a better concentrate of hydrogen peroxide, he'd be better off buying it from a beauty salon."
Jonas was obviously surprised, "You know a lot about explosives?"
"He knows a lot about everything," Rossi informed him dryly.
"I researched TATP years ago for a lecture," Reid explained, never looking up from the photos. "The perk of eidetic memory is that I retain everything."
"The more I learn, the more I'm entranced," Judith told him with a smile. Reid looked slightly flustered at the comment, and she ducked her head to keep from grinning.
Jonas' phone went off again. "It's Jack. One of the interns is here. He wants us to interview her."
Judith nodded—the fact that Jack and Jess didn't go ahead and interview her implied that this particular person was skittish, high strung. Judith and Jonas both had an innate knack for calming people and connecting easily.
"Then I suppose we'd best get back," Judith rose to her feet with a sigh. Offering one last smile toward the two BAU members, she added, "Let us know if you find anything."
By now, Spencer had slipped into the vacant seat, leaning forward to inspect the photos.
"Will do," Rossi nodded. With slight waves, Shostakovich and Eden left the room.
Rossi and Reid continued looking at the photos. Within a few minutes, Macaraeg appeared in the doorway again.
"Oh," she stopped, visibly surprised to see them. She jerked her thumb towards the hall, "I…I saw the other two leaving—I just assumed you were gone as well. Thought I'd come in here and stow everything away again."
"We'll put everything back where it belongs before we leave," Rossi assured her.
"A man who picks up after himself," Mac wore an amused smirk. "Well, I suppose there's a first time for everything."
"Rossi's a total neat-freak," Reid admitted, his tone distracted as he continued clicking through the photos.
Mac's wolf-like grin only deepened, "Of course he is."
Something in her smile kept Rossi from feeling defensive about her reply. Instead, he merely smiled back.
"Well, then," she made a slight gesture towards the laptop. "I guess I'll leave you to it."
"Actually, I think we're done here," Spencer informed her, glancing at Rossi for confirmation, who merely nodded in agreement.
"So…no glaringly obvious clues in the photographs?" Mac guessed, her face etched with resignation to the answer long before she even asked the question (after all, if there had been any such clues, she would have already found them).
"Sadly, no," Rossi admitted.
"I'm gonna head back down to the sixth floor and grab my coat—I think I'll stop by Penelope's office and get her phone as well," Reid told his team mate.
Rossi waved him on, "Go ahead. I'll get everything squared away here."
With one last nod of farewell to Macaraeg, Reid disappeared.
Mac moved towards the table, "You really don't have to, Agent Rossi—I was being snarky about the whole picking-up-after-yourself thing. It's not—"
"I know," he answered simply, not stopping his task of packing the laptop and its charger back into the carrying case. "But I wasn't kidding about leaving the place like we found it—you and your team have got enough on your plate, without having to pick up after us."
"Thank you," she returned, and she meant it. She knew when to step back and be gracious, and he liked that.
There was a beat of contented silence as Rossi finished packing everything away. Then, he conversationally asked, "So, which of your parents is the immigrant?"
"Excuse me?" She looked up in surprise.
"When you were talking about minorities in this country, you said we."
"Yes. But I could have been referring to being a woman—which is still considered a minority." She turned to leave the room, keeping her pace leisurely so that he could catch up.
"You could have," he admitted. "But you just proved that you weren't. If you had been, you wouldn't have used subjunctive language. You would have simply said 'I was referring to being a woman.'"
She smiled, giving a slight shrug of acquiescence. "Alright, Mr. Profiler, you got me. But that only affirms your hunch—so what made you think so in the first place?"
"Your passionate response to the plight of minorities. That kind of zeal only comes from a first-hand witness—and seeing as you have held some elite positions within the Bureau, I'd guess that you weren't the one who really felt discriminated against personally, at least not on the level to inspire such a response. Which lead me to believe it was someone you care about very deeply—a parent, or perhaps both, who was or were a minority of some kind. Now, it doesn't take a profiler to realize that Macaraeg doesn't quite have the same ring as Smith or Johnson."
She merely smiled at this, her expression something between amusement and admiration. "My father was Filipino. He was a cop for thirty years. Received dozens of commendations for his bravery and actions in the line of duty, but never got promoted. The New York Police Department just couldn't quite get behind the idea of letting a man with an accent head a precinct."
"Is that why you went into the FBI?" By now, they'd reached the pelican cases lined against the wall, and Rossi set the laptop case back into its rightful place.
She seemed irritated at the question, her friendly body language suddenly becoming cold and shut-off. "I went into the FBI because I wanted to serve my country, and they wouldn't let women in the armed forces—at least not in the capacity that I wanted to serve. I didn't do it to prove anything, or to live out some latent dream of my father's. My brother lost his mind in Vietnam, and I was expected to sit at home listening to vinyls and worrying about my hair. I wanted more—to do more, to be more. My family fought my decision to join the Bureau, every step of the way."
Unsure of what else to say, Rossi simply stated, "I'm sorry if I've offended you."
"It's not your fault," she assured him with another smile (but this one didn't reach her amber eyes). "I just don't like people trying to get inside my head, that's all. Like every good agent, I have severe trust issues and a built-in wariness towards head-shrinking of any kind."
That was a quip, a playful dig at the stereotypical Fibbie that had been perpetuated through history (and still held some truth), and Rossi understood that. He merely smiled, "I wasn't trying to head-shrink you. I just…wanted to get to know you."
"Why?" She stopped, turning to face him fully, hands setting on her hips.
"Why not?" He returned easily. "We're working a case together; I like to know the people I'm working with."
"Jeff Masterson isn't the only one who's read your books," she informed him. "And I've also been around the Bureau long enough to remember all the stories about you from before—so if you're looking for a little something-something to pass the time, you'd best keep looking, because I got over the thrill of messing around with coworkers a long time ago."
She was abrupt—brutally so. Rossi couldn't help but admire her.
"It's not that," he assured her.
"I feel like I should be offended by just how quickly you responded," she gave a slight shake of her head in feigned dismay. "I mean, damn, Rossi—give a split second of hesitation. Let a girl down easy."
He laughed, "I thought you didn't want that."
"I don't. But it's nice to feel like you've still got it." She was grinning now.
"I'll remember that next time."
"Taking pointers from a crazy old broad—if all those tales I heard back in the day were true, then you're definitely slipping, sir."
"I do just fine," he informed her with mock haughtiness.
She was too busy grinning like a Cheshire cat. With a slight roll of her eyes, she turned back towards the crime scene, "Well, if you'll excuse me, Agent Rossi, I've got actual work to do."
"And what do you think I do? Just sit around shooting the breeze?" He retorted in feigned anger.
She gave one last look over her shoulder, arching her brow, "You tell me. You're the one standing in the hallway chatting it up while the rest of your team's back at the Academy."
He laughed. Adelaide Macaraeg had a certain aura about her—one that spelled trouble for a man like him.
He really, really liked trouble.
Spencer Reid was keenly aware of just how dependent on electricity this building was. Just as he'd done on the way up the staircase, he used the flashlight app on his new phone to light what would otherwise be a pitch-black death trap. Once he entered the BAU suite, the light from the outer office windows only offered a weak attempt at aid—by the time it filtered through Rossi and Hotch's offices, it barely illuminated the bullpen, the odd emptiness and dead silence giving the whole place a haunted feel.
Luckily, Dr. Reid was not a superstitious person.
His coat was patiently waiting on the back of his desk chair. He scooped it up, gratefully donning it (without electricity, this place was beginning to feel very chilly). Then he turned his focus to navigating his way through the dark maze of halls to find Penelope's phone.
Her office looked even stranger, dead and flat screens bouncing back the muted reflection of his phone's light. Without the constant humming of the processors, the room was so quiet that his ears almost ached with the sensory overload of complete silence.
"This just doesn't look right," he said to himself, letting his voice dispel the odd quietness.
Something wiggled at the back of his mind. Something someone had said….
Penelope. She'd said Cruz's computer was turned on. But Cruz was supposed to be at Capitol Hill, and Carrington hadn't made it in yet.
So who had been on the Section Chief's computer?
He quickly found his friend's phone and headed out the door. He was tired of questions with no answers.
Judith Eden gave a sigh as she looked up at the bleak sky—it was cold, and it was only going to get colder. Virginia's winters were rather mild compared to her native England, but that didn't make her immune to them.
"I think we're on the wrong track," she admitted quietly.
Jonas made a small hum—he didn't seem surprised, but he was waiting for her to explain herself.
Judith looked down at her feet as she continued walking, her brows furrowing as she tried to form her thoughts, "Well—I mean, yes, I definitely see where Curtis' case could influence our UNSUB—but Curtis took his professional loss as deeply as a personal one. The Bureau was his life. Don't get me wrong; I've met more than one agent who fit that bill…but what if…what if our UNSUB doesn't?"
"Are you suggesting that our UNSUB is retaliating for something more personal than being overlooked for a position?" Jonas asked, his tone impossibly neutral.
"Well, yes. I suppose."
Jonas had to smile at her response—Jude wanted to be wrong, but she couldn't deny the feeling in her gut.
"I mean…those photos." She shook her head slowly, face contorting in sadness. "The impact—that bomb wasn't just meant to scare people and cause a panic. It was meant to cause pain—the kind of pain you want to cause when you're hurt and you're lashing out. You hurt like that when you lose someone, not when you lose a job."
"Unless you're John Curtis." Jonas pointed out.
"Unless you're John Curtis," she agreed. "But Curtis' attacks were more about prowess, about proving his intelligence—the people he killed, that was just collateral damage, a necessary evil in proving his point. With the exception of Chief Strauss—which, given her ties to his career, is understandable."
"I have to admit—I've been thinking the same thing," Jonas ducked his head, clasping his hands behind his back as their pace slowed. They were getting closer to the Academy, but neither one was ready to finish the conversation—and they certainly didn't want to continue this discussion inside, where the likelihood of being overheard was much greater. "This seems like the opening salvo in a vendetta—a very personal one. But why target the FBI for a personal loss?"
"We lose people all the time in this business," Judith admitted tiredly. "Friends get transferred, or killed in action. We miss moments with our loved ones—like Mac missing her daughter's graduation—and those types of things can create irreparable distances. We lose relationships, due to the long hours and the emotional fallout from cases that our lovers can't understand or overcome."
"And on rare occasions, we lose our lovers in the line of duty," Jonas added, his tone weighted with a certain sense of knowing that filled his partner with dread. "Rare occasions where the Bureau is physically responsible for taking that person's life, for causing our loss."
Now Jonas was at her shoulder, his body nearly flush against hers, a sure sign that he was about to say something that he didn't want overheard (even though there wasn't anyone else around). Judith simply shook her head, "I know what you're going to say, Vichie—"
"And why do I get the feeling that you don't want to hear it?"
"Because I don't agree." She answered simply, resuming a more normal pace.
"Jude—"
"I don't agree," she repeated, this time a little more forcefully. "I interviewed him. I know he looks good for it on paper, but I promise you now, it's not him. It doesn't fit."
"Must've been some hell of an interview," Jonas muttered. "You've already lost all objectivity in regards to the man."
"Fuck you," she replied tartly. She pushed her long legs to move even faster, attempting to put distance between herself and her partner. Jonas was surprised—her stride almost eradicated any sign of her usual limp, and he actually found it hard to keep up.
"You saw the way David Rossi defended Erin Strauss—that was more than just a—"
"I know what it was—I'm not blind."
"So if you can see that he cared very deeply about her—that he still does—how can you not see—"
"Because it isn't there to be seen, Vichie. It isn't."
"He made sure he wasn't in the building when the bomb went off. He's inserted himself into the investigation—"
"We asked for the BAU's help. There's a difference. And there wasn't a detonator, so there's no way he'd even know when the bomb would go off—much less where it'd even be when it did."
"Look at all the facts on the table. Tell me he doesn't look like a potential suspect."
There was a beat of silence. He knew that she wanted to say no, but she couldn't—she had an awful sense of honesty that way.
"Jude," Jonas' voice softened. "Who else has suffered a loss like that—one so directly tied to the Bureau? And who else also has first-hand knowledge of just how the Replicator worked? You have to admit, it's worth looking into."
"It's not him," Judith picked up her pace again, as if trying to outrun the thought.
"You lack conviction, Jude," he retorted, easily catching up to her. "You want to agree with me—in your head, you know you already do. But you won't let yourself."
"What does that even mean?" She gave a slightly incredulous snort, rolling her eyes.
"You're still mad about this morning," he didn't relent. "You're looking for any reason you can to disagree with me—even at the cost of this investigation."
"How positively petty," she spat. "It's beneath me and you know it."
"I know you're slipping, Jude—you've been slipping for weeks now. Ever since the Harrison case."
"Stop." She halted her stride, whirling around to face him so quickly that he nearly crashed into her. Her eyes were lined with tears, though not a single one dared to slip past her lashes. "You…you can't."
She didn't finish her sentence, but he understood—you can't use that against me, you can't punish me for being affected by a case, not when you've had cases that affected you just as deeply before, too.
She was right, of course. But she was also in danger—and that was the part that pushed Jonas Shostakovich further.
"You're falling apart. You need help. You are emotionally compromised, and now it's affecting every case you work on. You need—"
"What I need is none of your concern," she tried to sound harsh, but the tears made her sound heartbroken instead. Realizing how weak she seemed, she turned and began walking again. Her pace wasn't nearly as brisk this time—she didn't try to outrun Jonas, she knew how futile it was.
But he didn't try to catch up. He hung back, suddenly realizing that he'd pushed too far. He'd wanted her to see the truth, but he hadn't wanted to break her over the altar of reality. This was about fixing the damage, not increasing it.
By the time they reached the Academy's front entrance, he'd found the words he needed to say, "Jude—"
"It's not the same for you," she quietly informed him. "You have…outlets. You have Lise, you have your cozy little home in the suburbs. You can pretend you're part of a different life entirely. I don't have that—not like that, anyways."
"You're not alone," he returned gently.
"I never said I was." She stopped just before they reached the door. Her anger and her defensiveness was gone; all that remained was a tired and lifeless version of the woman whom Jonas had thought was inexhaustible. "You should call Lise. The poor darling's probably worried sick about you. As always."
She turned around again, opening the door with a sudden forcefulness. "We've got work to do. So if you could, set your bleeding heart aside for a few minutes and help me interview this kid. Do you think you can do that—or will you sacrifice our working dynamic, at the cost of this investigation?"
She was using his own words against him—and she had a point. Normally, they were able to have their disagreements and still work together in relative harmony. However, usually their disagreements were of a professional nature, and Jonas was making this personal. Jack Dawson was expecting them to walk through that door, ready to slip into their usual groove. Whenever it came to interviews, Shostakovich and Eden were invariably paired together—because they made a great team.
Given their current situation, it was ironic. However, Jonas Shostakovich never was one to appreciate literary moments, therefore he found zero humor in the irony. However, he knew that inwardly, Judith Eden was giving a small smile. She always was a crooked soul that way.
From his perch at the window, Jack Dawson watched the tense exchange between his two agents.
Something was wrong—it wasn't unusual for those two to disagree, but never so vehemently. It was time to get to the bottom of this. On today of all days, he needed his team at their best and highest. He couldn't afford to let this storm brew.
"United we stand, divided we fall. Let us not split into factions which must destroy that union upon which our existence hangs."
~Patrick Henry.